Ugh. Glad my life isn't like that.
I met P at a Halloween party the literal next weekend after my breakup of a 5-year relationship. We both got drunk, had sex on the backyard trampoline, and then I took him home with me with the sole purpose of a one-night stand.
A few days later, this fool gets my number from the host of the party and calls me. He wanted to see me again. I was in college and he worked at a commission-only call center and I just didn't see anything happening between us worth a shit because, well...telemarketer. Everybody on earth hates them.
He drank too much, had a car but the timing chain broke and he didn't have enough money to fix it so it got towed from his complex and then he couldn't afford to pay for storage fees and they auctioned it off (where we lived, you really HAD to have your own car, as public transportation is limited), he smoked, he drank (admittedly, I did both as well), and had a kid from a one-night stand and it took the mother 3 years to figure out who the father might have been and even after he found out it was him, he still didn't take part in the kid's life although he said he did at one time but he pissed off the mother and she wouldn't let him see him. Umm, okay. So we're talking EXCELLENT man of character, here.
He was intended to be the rebound boy. It lasted much longer than that, probably because I was just bored and my other options were equally as distasteful.
I ended up being his taxi service, in my truck that was 25 years old at the time. He was living with me and pretty much the only thing he contributed with was grocery shopping and cooking. I made him pay for gas a lot, though. It made sense, really, because I was going to be paying those same bills regardless. And living in the serious barrio, it was nice not being alone because I really didn't want to have to shoot someone.
Time goes on, I find out that he'd started using coke and leaving work early so he can go out drinking and still make it home at a normal time. He was taking out payday loans left and right. He eventually bought himself a 1-year old used truck. Nothing fancy, but had a lot of upgraded features and was really nice. So then we had to have A Talk.
It basically went something like, "If you have the money to get a new truck and pay for cigarettes, beer, and coke, then you need to start throwing some cash my way on the weekly and stop with the felony drug use." Which he did. But he didn't stop using, he was just trying to be sneaky about it. What he failed to realize was that I'm an ex-addict too, so I know what to look for when someone's still on coke.
That, of course, brought forth a ton of fights, some of which got physical because drunk + coke + guilt + getting caught = bad shit. I threw him out a lot. I changed the locks a lot. I defended myself by smacking him like a baseball across the face with a guitar. One of the locksmiths was an ex-Israeli army soldier. He literally told me he would take P out and eliminate my problem. He was serious. Google Israeli soldier training. You'll see.
I eventually told P that I was graduating soon (in like, a year and a half) and that I wanted to be married one day, but that if he didn't clean himself up, he needed to get the fuck out and never look back. I loved his soul and who he really was - he came from literal shit in a shithole town and managed to make it to The Big City and kinda support himself among some other really good things about him - but that I hated who he had become and I didn't want him anymore if he was going to make that choice.
So he cleaned up. For real, this time. The line he walked was so straight that it was scary. And he was happier. And more productive. Ditched the telemarketing and went into mortgage brokering. Made more money, convinced his Baby Mama to let him see his son again...things were good. My father didn't particularly like him but saw that something was different and he'd buckled himself down and really becoming something better. He told me that my great-grandmother's engagement ring was his to give me, when he was ready to use it. So we went ahead and had it sized and in the top of my jewelry box.
We were at his parents' in that shithole town and while everyone was getting drunk and playing around in the backyard (this was Christmas night), I had developed a really bad headache from studying in awkward positions and went inside to lay down to sleep. He woke me up at about 1am and told me to get up, that he wanted to take me somewhere. I complained that I still felt like shit, but he dragged me out of bed. At 1:30am, he pulls me up onto this huge boulder on this overlook where you could see miles of ranches, and proposed to me. No ring. And he was still drunk. For some reason, I said yes, even though I knew the whole method of proposing seemed like he hadn't really thought about doing it in a meaningful way. When we got back home, I begged him to take me out to the edge of the lake just outside our condo and propose to me on one knee, with the ring, sober. He refused to do it.
We decided to get married around November of the next year which was kind of a bad choice. I started planning immediately. I was doing my student teaching and graduating, hoping I would have a job before then, and then trying to get married, all within a 6-week time span. But not waiting until the last minute turned out to be the best choice I could have made, as just about everything was completely buttoned up before I even started that last semester. I graduated with his last name. It's on my diploma that way.
He still played it straight for that whole time. I didn't have any doubts, but I still checked up on things every once in awhile because, well, experience with enough piece of shit men had taught me you can't really let your guard down for a long time after.
Wedding day. The absolute perfect wedding of my dreams. We had no hitches or emergencies. Everyone did what they were supposed to do, acted how we were hoping, and it was great. In retrospect, really, the only thing I wish was different was that I'd worn Chanel #22 perfume instead of my old standby.
But, up in that bridal chamber, before the Wedding March started, my stomach started lurching. Not in that nervous bride way but more like, what the actual fuck do I think I'm doing sort of way. I was almost in tears when I realized I was going to have to go down there. The wedding coordinator kept pushing me towards the door. There was no way I could stop it now; money and guests and all of that.
P's face didn't look like you'd expect a man's face to look when I came down the stairs. He didn't look disappointed, but he didn't get that awestruck look. Honestly, there wasn't much of a reaction at all. But everything went fine until I found myself dancing with my dad after. I cried. I cried like a fucking baby because I knew I fucked up and he kind of thought I did too and there was no way to fix it now. The pictures they took of us dancing together are painful to look at now, because you can see my despair and my father's helplessness.
As you can guess, as soon as we got back from our overnight honeymoon about 45 minutes from home, things were different.
In the middle of all this, he got a new truck. A very new, decked out truck with a high monthly payment. At one point it got "stolen" with his checkbook and expensive paintball gun inside. They recovered the vehicle and the only problem was the driver's side window was broken. Steering column was fine. Hmm.
At that point, I was proud of my high-salary job and perfect credit and was able to finally buy my first new vehicle ever, at 30 years old. It was almost my dream car; the best possible choice for what was out at the time. He bitched about it (mind you, he'd had 2 new trucks since we got together while I still had the 25-year old truck) even though I got a crazy low interest rate and had negotiated a good deal on the car.
We started looking for a house to buy around the 1-year mark (we didn't do anything for our anniversary, btw). We looked and looked, most houses got sold out from under us, but we eventually found a house. We'd gotten a mortgage through the company he worked for. I was so busy working 2 jobs (teaching and then at night at a bar) that I basically gave him permission to sign everything on my behalf; we'd talked at length about what we wanted, how much down payment we were going to make, the type of loan we wanted, which pre-sale inspector to use, etc.
He took advantage of that and ended up getting us an ARM, he got some weird 0% down thing, and I couldn't do anything about it really. We had to hand over a check for $1k at closing for some reason, but whatever, right? Um, no. Fucking thing bounced. He knew it was going to. I had to go get a money order the very next day and get it to the title company. Right then, I knew something was wrong.
Within a few months he was back to using and drinking too much and lying. I was kind of in denial and wasn't really checking up on him because I don't think I wanted to know. We had another pretty big fight while I was on break at work and he threatened to walk out of the condo and leave the door wide open so the dogs could escape and get lost. I told him that, if he did that, I would literally track him down and fuck him up until I finally decided to spare him and kill him. If I couldn't find him, I was going to his parents' house. He immediately said, "You win. You know I was only joking. I love those dogs too." Mmm-hmm.
But I put a keylogger on my computer and was floored. I'll just fast-forward here.
I was out of town on a training and he called me at 3am, freaking the fuck out because there was something in the attic "trying to get him" and it had slammed the attic door on his head, cutting his forehead. I knew he was fucked up, but I told him to get the dogs and go to my parents' house. I called my dad who was, obviously pissed because it was 3am, and told him P was coming over with the dogs because there was something going on at the house. Although we'd lived in a very haunted condo for a whole 3 months once, I knew this was different. My roommate for the trip heard everything while I was in the hallway and was concerned when I got back in. I called P to see if he'd made it to my parents' but he didn't answer. I called my dad and he said P hadn't shown up. I called P again. Nothing. I asked my dad to go over and check on him but to remember that we had a pistol and to be very careful. (My parents lived about 3 minutes from us)
My dad called me from the driveway and said that all the lights were out and when he went in, P was passed out on the couch with the TV blaring and was unresponsive. He just left. I guess he didn't care if P was dead or not. Ha.
I kept trying to call and I was completely wrecked all the fuck up for the training exercises the next morning. Kept calling. Finally got him, he hadn't gone to work, and I basically told him to get the fuck out of my house (that we'd had for about 2 months at this point) and he'd better not take anything but his clothes for now. I told my neighbors, my father, and my cousin down the street what was going on, so they could kind of keep an eye on his activities. A friend let him borrow a truck for it. He took his clothes and his weight bench.
I already knew I was going to divorce him. I'd contacted a very aggressive, bitter female lawyer and started drawing up paperwork.
P begged me to come back. I figured I'd give him a chance to prove himself but kept going with the divorce stuff. He didn't know about any of it. This was also about the time I noticed that our bank account was a lot leaner than it should have been and I started getting phone calls from credit card companies I didn't have cards with, but swore that I did and that I was delinquent.
P came home but I told him he had a week to enroll in a monitored NA program at a facility literally a mile from his job. He tried telling me they didn't have any programs after his work hours which, of course, I followed up on, told him I'd found one there, and told him I wanted proof that he'd enrolled and was working the stuff they told him to work. I still hadn't confronted him about anything yet.
I contacted all the creditors calling and requested they send me the original paperwork from when the card was applied for and approved. None of the signatures were mine; he'd forged everything. I kept all of it in a small locked ammo can under the passenger seat of my Jeep, also locked to the frame with a cable and master lock.
I insisted that P start bringing home his paperwork from the rehab program so I could see it and verify that he'd been doing what he was supposed to be doing. I told him ahead of time that I was going to call his counselor if anything looked off. I took that paperwork after each week, made copies on the printer upstairs, put the copies into his folder, and put the originals in my ammo can. Since he got a new paper every session, he never checked the previous ones to notice they were copies. I dug through his stuff when he was at work - I got home 2 hours before he did - and found forged W2s that, presumably, helped him get the vehicles with a co-signer (which I'd refused to do both times, causing a huge blowup, but whatever). White-out and the whole deal. I made copies of those, took the originals and put them in my box. Put the fakes back in his footlocker.
I was giving all of these papers to my attorney when I saw her. At this point, he'd managed to convince his mom to co-sign for him to get another truck - a base model Tundra which I knew he still couldn't pay for - and they basically lent it to him, I guess, until they ran the numbers on the new W2 from his next new job and saw he couldn't afford it. They worked a deal with him where he could get a new base model Echo, so he did. He was PISSED about that.
At some point, he'd quit going to the NA program.
Once I had word from the attorney that we had enough for me to keep everything I owned, as well as anything we'd acquired since marriage (which the second part is kind of unusual; that's usually a 50/50 thing since we were in a community property state), I went ahead with the final stuff. She tried to convince me to take his car too, stating that I could if I wanted, but I decided not to. The house deed was automatically transferred to my name.
I came home from work on Friday and he was already home. They'd sent him home because he was too coked up to work or communicate effectively. I put him out of the house with the police department's help, and that was that.
They tried to serve him with papers at the house where he was living with friends, but the owner said he wasn't there - even though he was. They served him at work, finally, but we heard nothing back. The day before his last day to "answer," he had papers sent back to my attorney, stating that he'd retained an attorney as well. Except the guy was a debt collection attorney. Basically nothing.
I put P's few belongings into a couple of boxes and had them by the front door in the hall.
I got ahold of him at work (his cell had been disconnected) and told him to come sign the papers. Now, in my state, he didn't have to. He could have ignored the whole damned thing but it wouldn't have mattered - I still would have been granted the divorce and all the bullshit would be handled on the court date. But he did come to sign (because he didn't know better; his attorney knew nothing about divorce law) and he said not one word. Signed, shoved the chair back, knocking it over, and walked out of the house, leaving the door open. He tried to peel out but he was driving that Echo so...no. Heh.
He didn't even show up for the court date. I was granted the divorce about a week after our anniversary. I wanted to get it pushed up to the actual date of our anniversary, just as a kind of fuck you to him, but my attorney just couldn't do it. The judge asked me why I didn't require him to pay off all the fraudulent bills and I said, "Because I know collections law and federal law supersedes state law. You can order him to pay it, but federal law says that because we're in a community property state, we're both liable. He won't pay it, so I'm still stuck with it. I can file charges for the fraud but, again, because we were married at the time, it's both our responsibility." My credit score promptly took a nosedive and Capital One even filed a judgment against me for a $4000+ debt. They couldn't make me pay it; you can't garnish wages over that, so I knew I was fucked for at least 7 years, if not longer, because Capital One will re-file for years, typically.
Then I got the surprise of a person at the door one evening serving me with papers of foreclosure proceedings. Apparently he hadn't paid the mortgage not even once since we'd moved in.
I was stuck. I couldn't move out because my credit wasn't good enough to get a new place, not even an apartment. I had to find a way to keep it out of foreclosure because it was the only choice I had. That was a ridiculous endeavor that caused me tons of stress, trying to cut through red tape, calling out mortgage companies (they sold my account several times) on their deceptive practices...God, it took years before I finally got it restructured to a payment I could *barely* afford. If I hadn't had my Jeep paid off, I'dda been sunk like the Titanic. And I still needed help from my parents quite often.
This whole time, I was still getting mail with our last names on it. (I'd legally changed mine back in the divorce decree) I'd kept my former married name at work for professional and privacy reasons. I had to fight for years to get his name off the mortgage - when you borrow money jointly, it's still y'all's loan; ownership of the house makes no difference - and told the mortgage companies that if they could find him, then we could work shit out that way. I had no idea where he was. I also had to tell the repo man that when he came looking for P so he could take possession of the Echo.
For 9 years, I still had to see shit with his name on it. Once I quit my teaching position and sold the house (as soon as I got out from under it and, believe it or not, I made money on the money pit which, by the way, I found out he'd never actually GOTTEN a pre-sale inspection on the house), I could finally delete his last name from my life. And it worked. I was afraid he was going to try to come after me for some of the money of the sale of the house - a mutual friend was the insurance agent - so I was pretty much on pins and needles for awhile. I was so fucking furious that he was able to just walk away and start his life all over (he got married 3 years later to a really nice girl from his hometown and they had a daughter 7 months later...do the math) while I was stuck picking up the pieces from an explosion of a marriage.
Three days shy of what would have been our 10th anniversary, I received an email from him. I was scared and didn't know what to say. It was short, but I didn't know how to react. I didn't tell anybody except my psychiatrist and my boyfriend and then sat on it for 3 months before I replied. My boyfriend urged me to do it, that maybe it would help me find closure, so I did. I sent a two-sentence reply and he sent back quite a long thing. No apology, however. My response could have burned a down a forest, it was so full of fire and brimstone. He didn't respond. A few days later, I re-read my reply and re-read his last exchange and realized I'd overreacted with over-the-top emotional reactions, so I sent another one explaining why I'd reacted like that.
To make all of this a bunch shorter, we talked a whole lot. I got to forgive, which was the biggest weight off my shoulders and made my heart feel so much better. My family was pissed. They couldn't believe I did it. I tried explaining that I did it for me, not so he could clear his conscience. That the hate and anger had been taking a toll on me and I had to let it go and come to an understanding with him for MY sanity and health. They still didn't get it. My dad was the most angry. I'm surprised he didn't have a heart attack. He told me, again, that P needed to be thankful that my dad hadn't called his Cajun friends and given P a permanent, poor-quality scuba lesson in the Louisiana swamp.
So, yes, I guess there's a relatively happy ending here. I still hold a bit of resentment but, it's not terrible. We've shared memes and I found his old band recordings which nobody else had or everyone had lost for some reason, I sent pictures of pics we'd taken from various things that were either really funny, or pics I'd taken of his family or son. His brother had died while we weren't speaking, so I sent him images of all the pics of the brother I could find. We're okay, although our communication has pretty much stopped. And that's okay too.
Lesson in this incredibly fucking long diatribe and sad story: trust your gut. Don't think that, just because someone proposes to you and you're getting older than you thought you would be, you have to marry them. Don't hand over all important decisions to your SO because it's convenient. Even if you've decided on something, be present. Know exactly what is going on with transactions. Keep an eye on that bank account and check your personal credit score often. Not out of distrust, necessarily, but out of due diligence of being an adult with finances, which every adult should do, married or not. Most importantly, do not stay with toxic people. Even if they change/grow up for what seems like a long amount of time. It's not worth it. If anybody raises a hand to you, boot them, and don't look back on 'good times' and think that it'll be okay again. You can do bad on your own; you don't need anybody's help. And, if you ignore all of that, and you're standing up there in the bridal chamber, or waiting at the altar, and something feels wrong, walk away. Nobody will be mad for long. If you go through with the marriage, you're going to have ended up paying for the wedding AND a divorce in the long run. Just stop it before it goes further. People will understand. I promise.
Despite coming to terms with this shit, I am...
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